


To Change

by Dracze



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Chronological, Old Married Couple, POV Alternating, Relationship Study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24589495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dracze/pseuds/Dracze
Summary: Bruce isn't the only one who's been afraid of change.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 51
Kudos: 181





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little something composed of prompts I saw in the announcement for this year's [Batjokes Week](https://twitter.com/Batty_Birb/status/1262116620576739329?s=20). I liked them so much that I decided to do something with them, a chapter per prompt, and the result is a story where I attempted to work through some of my headcanons for canonverse batjokes and how I see them relating to one another in a scenario where Bruce decides he's fed up. 
> 
> ... Can I say anti-"Half Way Across"? Guess you'll see.
> 
> The first chapter, "Rain," is actually the last-but-one part in the story's chronology. "Domestic" happens right after. The rest of the chapters are chronological. Hope that's not too confusing.
> 
> Many, MANY thanks and hugs to Ring - our conversations were a major trigger and inspiration to try and articulate our musings in story form. 
> 
> Please let me know if you liked it!

Joker opens his eyes to the frantic patter of rain, beating into the skylight above like a round of bullets under a silencer, and the smell of Bat all around him.

Their smell. What they did together. Strong and heady and musky and wet and sweet-sour, flesh and skin and sweat and cum, and double that when he digs his face into the dried spot on the pillow.

Into the spot on the mattress next to him, still warm.

Joker swallows, closes his eyes again, and takes a nice long sniff. It settles him _into_ the Bat smell and the bullet-rain and the ache deep deep _deep_ inside him, takes him right in and under until he can't tell what's now and what's memory, not that he really cares to. It's all a matter of perspective anyway, the now and then and yesterday, especially when the _then_ is all still on him, layers of it, coating him like dust. The smell, the itchy dried spots he never bothered to clean, the tingle on his skin, the pain.

He inhales again, and then it's only a moment — one heartbeat, two, three —until the voices, crying out in alarm, trying to crack the back of his skull on the inside, begin to simmer down.

It's easier to do that than it was the last time. Or the time before that. Easier than he'd ever thought it'd be. 

He thinks it might be easier still the next time.

Not that he's ever presumptuous enough to assume that there'll _be_ a next time.

Which, come to think of it, is part of what those alarmed voices in his blood are about, and Joker isn't all that sure he wants to, or should, wish them all away. They keep him sharp. On his toes. Ready to bolt, if need be.

And they keep Batsy sharp, too.

Joker _needs_ that. Now more than ever. The fact that he lies there, disoriented and sleep-dazed and confusedly picking at the sandy itch in his eyes, is proof enough.

(Then again, maybe he shouldn't be surprised that he'd fallen asleep, on his own, without any chemical help. Batsy's always managed to put him under, one way or another.)

Just then, there's a gust of chill over his ribs, shimmering over his naked skin vertebra by vertebra, and another smell whooshes in to mingle with the sweat and sex and Bat. The city, and the rain, and the city in the rain.

Joker's mouth eases into a smile before he can tell it to, and he closes his eyes again, just for a moment, to stretch and wallow in all the various aches and pains and sparkly thrumming pleasure still lingering, on him and in him. And just under it, too, simmering low where the wind and the rain and the cold cold air are touching him and helping cool, just a bit, the constant burn on his skin.

He's getting used to it. He thinks maybe that's a good thing. 

Though it's still a bit early to tell.

He turns his head, and lets the warmth and the fondness and the love take root in his smile.

"Baby," he whispers.

Bats doesn't turn. He just stands there, tall and majestic by the tall windows. He's got one of them cracked open, letting in the smells of Gotham to creep into the room and melt what's left of the night off their bodies, as if _that's_ gonna help with anything, as if it could possibly undo what they've done. His back is to Joker, and he hasn't dressed, and his naked _human_ body isn't quite what Joker loves best but it's still pleasing, still breathtaking, because it's his, all that _power_ and _will_ that make him, all that intensity, packed into lovingly sculpted muscle, coiled up in wait tight tight tight.

He's beautiful. And tragically ridiculous.

Just how Joker loves him best.

"Baby," he repeats, because he can't let well enough alone now that he's got it going, and he lets just a bit of the wonder he thrums with, just a spoonful of it, fill up his voice as a gift.

Batsy's shoulders stiffen, but still he doesn't turn. Doesn't look. Doesn't take the bait.

As if he's afraid of what he'll do if he does.

Which strikes Joker as a bit strange, considering all they've already done — and who, ultimately, started it.

But Batsy wouldn't be Batsy without his scruples, now, would he. It's a lesson Joker's had to learn the hard way, and more than once. And it's not that he _minds_. How could he?

It's one of the things that make Batsy so _beautiful_.

That make him his.

He pulls himself up, gets to his feet and makes his way over in an exaggerated, sashaying step that coaxes out the lingering, delicious soreness in his ass, thinking something vague about turning tables, and that this was probably inevitable, that he isn't the only one here allowed to doubt.

How maybe it's his turn to do the comforting, and how here and now, the prospect isn't altogether odious to think about.

Strange, that. But he'll examine it another time.

For now, he's got an audience to entertain.

Batsy doesn't quite recoil when Joker touches him. He holds himself too rigid for that. But he stiffens all over, and that delicious muscle in his heroic jaw twitches just so, and his eyes harden.

Both his hands — the hands that touched Joker, caressed him, made love to him — are out, sticking out the open window, collecting rain.

Ah. So it's to be that kind of night.

Good.

Joker comes up to stand next to Batsy, shoulder to shoulder, and quietly relishes the burn of Batsy's skin rubbing up against his. He cues himself: _Lights. Camera. Action._

He laughs.

"Really, Batsy," he teases, leaning on Batsy, winding both hands around his chilled, muscular arm. "Don't you think it's a bit late in the game to be having _this_ particular crisis? I mean." He leans in close to whisper right in Batsy's ear. "No amount of washing your hands can take back the fact that earlier tonight, you had them stuck deep up my —"

Batsy turns, grabs Joker by the throat, pulls him in close, and then _shoves_ , his hand still curled around Joker's neck like a collar, pushing him out over the sill so that half of Joker's body hangs out the window.

He blinks. The rain-bullets hit his skin directly now, splashing on his eyeballs. Melting in his open mouth. He pokes his tongue out to catch them, and smears them over his lips.

One third water, two thirds acid. What Gotham rain's always been. Heavy, contaminated, toxic.

(Joker should now. He's the city personified, and _he's_ toxic, too.)

He closes his eyes and captures even more of the acidic rain into his mouth. And then Batsy's grip on his neck goes tight enough to cut off his breath.

And oh, it's good. So good. Joker laughs some more, hoarse and dry, and it's strange how easily slips into his role even now, after everything that's changed between them.

It only really proves one thing, now, doesn't it, and the relief of it makes Joker giddy enough that if Batsy let him go now, he thinks he might just float. 

He shouldn't have been afraid. And now he needs to show Batsy that, too.

"Go on," Joker croaks through the stars of pain-pleasure exploding on his skin, the _good_ pain, the _exquisite_ pain, strong enough, _there_ enough, to cut right through the mess of noise and static in Joker's head, the distracting overload of feeling, and scatter it until all his life, all his world, all of _him_ gets pulled into the sensation. "Do it. You've already broken all the rules that matter. You've changed everything. You've already killed me. Might as well seal the deal and make it literal."

The grip on his neck goes _tighter_ , squeezing Joker's laugh into a cough, and then killing that, too. Batsy's face is drawn in granite, his eyes startling bright, his mouth a set thin line. He bears down on him, hard, tipping him back so Joker's head hangs upside-down above the empty street, so that his body loses purchase and his legs scramble to close over Batsy's waist on some silly leftover instinct to hang on. The rain keeps falling on him, hitting them both now, washing the night off of their naked bodies with Gotham's acid.

It reminds Joker of something. The funfair. All those years ago. And how Batsy tried to change the script then, too.

Their laughter, mingling together to swirl into the puddle and down the drain.

He laughs, weakly, at the memory, and also because he thinks Batsy might need him to. The hard glint in Batsy's eyes proves him right. Batsy growls, a magnificent, freely feral sound straight from the gut, and bites hard on the skin just above Joker's cock at the same time that his finger plunges, cold and rain-wet, into Joker's body.

He fucks Joker like he fights him, all his beautiful impotent fury driving every violent thrust, keeping Joker's body balanced precariously on the sill — and for the first time since they started this Joker relaxes into it easily, gives himself up to the pleasure, lets the currents of it float and take him where they may without even trying to hold on.

There's no point. He understands that now. Now that Batsy's stopped holding back, it's startling clear that it's all just the same old between them, only perhaps even a bit easier. They can adjust. They can fit this part into their dance because, in a way, it's always been there, natural as breathing, and nothing _fundamental_ about it has to change. This _can_ be just another way for them to be, and when all's said and done, all it really comes down to is this.

Either Batsy lets him fall, or he doesn't.

And really, isn't that how it's always been?

Joker keeps his eyes open all through it, gazing up at the cloudy sky above them, letting the rain keep him tethered over the pleasure singing and burning all through his body as he lets himself accept Batsy's love and violence, and he thinks,

_Maybe to change isn't always to lose._


	2. Formal wear

Bruce is in the middle of the ballroom at the Manor, shaking hands with Gotham's new mayor and quietly chafing in his tux, when the windows explode and thugs in clown masks pour inside through the smoke.

And the thing is, Bruce isn't just unsurprised to seem them — he's _relieved_. His skin's been tingling all day with the kind of restless anticipation that gets him sometimes ahead of very specific nights, the small hairs at the back of his neck have stood on ends since the doors to the Manor opened to admit the gala guests, and he's known, ever since he opened his eyes that morning, that something would happen.

That _he_ would happen.

And now the wait is finally over, and he can ease from anticipation into action and release some of the tension that's made him itchy and restless all day.

Except.

Tonight, something's _different_.

"Now wait here just a second," Joker calls out as he sashays into the ballroom. He's got an automatic rifle slung over one arm, and the other's holding a map of Gotham upside down; Joker's theatrically frowning at it while his stiletto heels crush over shards of broken glass. "This isn't the _Clown of the Year Awards Extravaganza_! I've been misled! And now I'm gonna have to shoot _another_ agent — that's the third one this month, can you _believe_?"

He looks up to survey the terrified crowd, grins, shrugs, and tosses the map to the floor. "Ah well, since we're here anyway. Round 'em up, my darlings!"

He lets off a round into the ceiling, riddling the frescoes with bullets as the guests scream and run.

"Sir!" Alfred's tugging at Bruce's arm. "Sir, this might be a good moment to — Bruce!"

Bruce ignores him. He looks at Joker, and as he does, something strange starts happening inside him.

There's nothing _different_ about Joker tonight. He looks the same as he always does, tall and skeletal and ghostly white, theatrical makeup sharp and precise on his face, green hair falling over one side of his face in artful disarray. Sure, he _is_ wearing a long sparkly purple gown, cut on one side to flash his long long leg; opera gloves run the legth of his arm, and his feet look snug and assured in the heels. But after all these years, drag isn't unusual for him, either — Bruce's seen him in it at least a dozen times.

No. The new thing is how Bruce reacts to it.

How, suddenly, he lets himself verbalize the thing he's never allowed into his conscious thoughts before.

Joker looks _good_.

And that, looking back, is the moment when something in Bruce sort of — shifts, tilts on its axis, and then resettles with the snap of rubber finally stretched to the point of breaking. And then, just like that, everything changes.

Because once that thought lets loose in his brain and takes hold, it breaks the door down for others that have always been there, close enough to the surface but never allowed to break through, just as forbidden, just as taboo.

Like how he'd _really_ like to touch Joker's leg.

Like how much he wants to to tug those gloves off, and run his hands up Joker's arms before he squeezes them hard enough to bruise.

Like how much he'd like to punch Joker, to fight him the way they usually do, and then pin him to the floor, hold those hips in both hands, and fuck him right there over the shattered window glass.

Like how much he _wants him_.

"Sir," Alfred whispers urgently while Joker's gang rounds up the gala guests and tears at their purses and jewellry. "Bruce. Please. There's —"

Bruce can hardly hear him. He can hardly hear anything. His breath is far too loud in his ears, coming hard and fast, and his heart is a steady thrum in his ears, because it's happened, he's let it happen, and instead of the horror he'd always expected there's nothing but deep, exhausting _relief_.

And peace. 

And freedom.

He looks at Joker across the mess of the ballroom, and takes a step closer.

He doesn't understand the change in him yet. Doesn't know why it's happened now, of all times, and not sooner, and not later, because it might have seemed like a single moment to him, but he understands that it's been over a decade in the making. 

But happen it did. And he thinks that now that it has, he doesn't really want to take it back.

That he's fucking tired of trying.

"Bruce," Alfred calls out after him.

Bruce keeps his eyes on Joker, and keeps walking.

Joker's noticed him now. His grin goes wide, showing teeth, and he winks at Bruce as though there's a joke between them that no one else would get, which, yeah, it's true enough.

Except, Bruce doesn't think he finds it funny anymore.

Maybe he never really did. Maybe funny isn't the right word, and maybe neither is _joke_ , and maybe he's tired of pretending otherwise.

"And here's the man of the hour," Joker calls out to him, waving his rifle from one shoulder to the other. "Brucie, old boy! It's been a dog's age. Sorry for crashing in like this, but I heard you were throwing this shindig for some people in need, and I thought, well, _I'm_ in need, so why not add a little glamour to —"

He's noticed. Bruce can pinpoint the moment he realizes the change in Bruce, not so much from the falter in his voice as from the way his eyes open wide, and his grin freezes into a grimace. Bruce keeps walking, lighter and more at peace with himself than he'd ever felt in his entire life, and doesn't stop when Joker holds up his rifle and points it straight at Bruce.

Vaguely, he's aware of a new silence around them. There are no more gunshots. No more screams. The crowd's gone quiet, guests and criminals alike, and the skin on the back of Bruce's neck prickles with the heat of their eyes, all fixed on him and Joker in the empty space in the middle of the ballroom.

 _Tired_ , he thinks as he walks up close enough that his chest presses up into the muzzle of Joker's rifle. He's tired. Too tired to keep fighting himself.

Too old.

He thinks maybe they both are, and that it's time to make Joker see that.

"And just what do we think we're doing?" Joker whispers, his voice dropping from lilting to cold as he watches Bruce across the length of the rifle.

Bruce doesn't reply. He puts his hand over the rifle, and keeps his eyes on Joker's.

It's enough. Joker _knows_. He reads Bruce's thoughts off his face, the fear of it stealing into his eyes, and his hand trembles, just a bit, just to make the muzzle shift over the stiff material of Bruce's waistcoat.

"No," he whispers, low enough that Bruce can barely hear him. "You can't."

"Joker," Bruce whispers back. His hand inches across the rifle, ever closer.

"Bats." Joker's voice goes hoarse, tight with emotion. "Please."

Bruce swallows, and, still holding his gaze, he starts, "I'm —"

He doesn't get to finish. Just then, a bang fires off behind him, and a blink later blood spatters his tux as Joker groans and staggers back.

Bruce whips his head around to see Alfred, cold, determined and grim, lowering a smoking handgun.

Someone in the crowd screams. Joker's people rush forward. Joker fires another shaky round into the ceiling.

"I think that's enough fun for one night," he says loudly, and laughs, the sound gurgling and broken as he presses a hand into his bleeding shoulder wound. "Come on, lads. Let's leave these fine people to their _charity_."

Bruce's first impulse is to follow him, but Joker shoots him a cold, quelling look, and Bruce understands. He stays put, watching as Joker and his gang disappear in fumes of green smoke that only pretends to be Joker's laughing gas, and slowly, the world with all its noise and chaos rushes back.

Joker isn't ready yet. That's fine. Bruce can respect that, and take it slow for now.

But he _is_ too old and tired to keep up the pretense much longer, and doesn't see the point in it anymore. Not when the shift in him has already taken hold, and filled him up with a strange kind of peace he thinks he might have been afraid of all this time, thinking that he didn't deserve it. That the source of it made it wrong.

Maybe that's still true.

But he's made the first step.

And he doesn't want to look back.


	3. Against the Wall

Batsy's kissing him.

It doesn't register for Joker all at once. That, in itself, isn't new. He was just in the middle of fighting Bats, caught up in that electric floaty-tingly headspace where there's no noise and no pain but that which Batsy gives him, and it's a high so potent that it always takes him a while to crash.

Especially on nights like this one, with grit and mud on Joker's tongue and blood on his lips, the knife fitting in his hand _just so_ , the blade of it singing with the wind sweeping the streets, harmonizing with Batsy's fury. He never knows just _when_ he gets lost in it until it happens, and then it's like free-falling, each blink and move stretched out into eternity and also faster than sound, like a movie clip cut up into frames.

All he knows, in the end, is this.

He was running. Batsy was chasing. The hows and the whys of it aren't important anymore — they never are when the rubber meets the road. Just window dressing, appetizers for the main course, which happened soon enough, Batsy catching up to him and cutting him off in Crime Alley — which may or may not have been deliberate — literally dropping from the sky in front of Joker like a huge, angry shadow.

And then they fought. Viciously. Violently. Getting up in each other's faces, real close, the way they always do, the way they both love it best. The pain of Batsy's fists on him, so deliriously good, and the sting of his batarangs, even better as they drew Joker's blood. Joker's knife sticking into kevlar, nice and deep, to pay him in kind.

It was _glorious_ , and just what Joker needed after that strange scare Batsy gave him the other night.

And that's how it was supposed to end, with Joker pinned to the wall, Batsy's hand around his throat, the other about to crash his head into the bricks for a kiss goodnight.

Except that never happened.

Except Batsy's mouth touched Joker's instead.

Batsy's _kissing him_.

 _What_ , is all Joker can think for a heartbeat, the moment he's able to think anything.

And then, _Yes_ at the same time as _No_.

The _No!_ screams louder.

He screws his eyes shut, tries to push through the heat and the haze and the burn of Batsy's lips, and draws a breath, and _kicks_.

Batsy doesn't look surprised as he staggers back. His arms release Joker, but only for a moment — Joker doesn't manage to so much as turn before Batsy's grabbing his shoulders, hard, turning him back, slamming him against the wall again, keeping him there.

Caught with the burn of the kiss still on his mouth.

 _Trapped_.

"No," Joker breathes over the panic now gripping the middle of his chest like a fist. "You don't get to do this. Not now."

"You can't tell me you don't want this, too," Batsy whispers, and the softness in his voice has Joker's knees going jelly-weak.

He's so close. Joker can smell him all over the alley, all over himself. He shivers and closes his eyes, breathing through the whirlwind screaming through his skull and hoping against hope that it'll help.

It doesn't.

"You're not supposed to —" he starts, and tries again. "You're changing the rules."

"Maybe I'm tired of the rules," Batsy says.

There's that softness in his voice. Joker wants to lurch up and bite through the skin of his neck so he can tear out his larynx with his bare teeth.

"You don't get to be tired of them," he nearly yells. "That's not how this works! You can't just up and change things, you can't — You're cheating!"

"I _am_ tired," Batsy insists, just as his grip on Joker's shoulders goes softer. As it turns into a caress.

Like petting a scared, cornered animal, and Joker has never hated Batsy but he thinks he _does_ hate him, that he suddenly burns with hatred of him, right now.

And then Batsy makes it worse by stepping closer, and leaning in, and whispering in his ear.

"I'm tired of pretending I don't want you."

It's everything Joker's ever wanted from him. Everything he's ever longed to hear. Everything he imagined between them all those cold, lonely nights, when he needed the fantasies to keep him going.

His heart's too fast, his breath doesn't want to come, and he can't see anything for the tears as he pushes Batsy away and plunges the knife into his stomach.


	4. Sorry

"I'm not gonna apologize," Joker tells him, lying on his cot with his back to Bruce.

Bruce puts the keycard against the reader, waits for it to go green, and steps into the cell as soon as the door opens.

"I didn't expect you to," he says.

"I don't want to see you."

"I don't think that's true."

"Why the fuck are you here?"

Bruce leans back against the plexiglass. Joker still doesn't turn.

"Why did you check yourself into Arkham?" Bruce asks, quietly.

It's a while before Joker responds, "I needed a vacation."

"From me?"

"From you. Because apparently you've lost your mind. And not in the good way."

Bruce wants to smile. He doesn't.

"Or maybe it's the other way around," he tells Joker softly.

"That's not your call to make."

Bruce gives him another moment.

He asks, "Won't you look at me?"

"No."

This time, the smile is harder to keep in. Bruce still does, for Joker's sake. He folds his arms over his chest, and weighs his words carefully. 

This is important.

"You've won, Joker," he says eventually, and watches Joker's whole body stiffen as it lies on the cot. "Isn't that what you've always wanted? Isn't that what you said I needed? Well, it's yours. You got me to admit it. You've _won_."

Silence. A long stretch of it, while Joker curls in on himself, and breathes.

He whispers, "Don't you remember what I told you about winning?"

Bruce does. Of course he does. And he understands, all too well.

"This is different," he says anyway. "This isn't about life or death."

Joker snorts. "Of course it is," he insists. "Everything is when it comes to you and me."

"It doesn't have to be," Bruce tries. "We've got choices here. Ways to do this. I've thought about it, and I understand that now. It doesn't have to change _everything_."

"There's no way it won't."

"I used to believe that, too. But now —" Bruce swallows, and takes a step towards the cot.

"Don't move."

"Okay." Bruce takes a deep breath, stamps down on the longing — it comes easy, after so many years of practice — and steps back up to the glass. "Okay."

Joker lets out a long, shuddering breath, and then sits up.

"I won't be what you want me to be," he says eventually. He still isn't facing Bruce, and his profile is drawn, tight, hiding under the messy curls of green hair that Bruce yearns to brush away. "I'm not gonna apologize for anything, if that's what you're expecting. I don't _feel_ sorry, for any of it."

"I know," Bruce whispers.

"But you kissed me anyway."

"Yeah."

Joker draws up his knees, hugs them close, and rests his forehead on his folded arms.

Bruce swallows, and resists the urge to come up to him. It'd only make it worse. If Joker's allowing him to see him like this, such an obvious signal of distress, it must be really bad.

Bruce settles in, gives him space, and waits.

"Why now?" Joker asks.

Bruce shrugs. "I told you," he says. "I got old. Too old to keep pretending."

"Even to spare me?"

"Do you really want me to?" Bruce asks, gently. "Do you really want to keep going like this until we both die, just because you're scared of what _might_ happen?"

"I'm fine with things as they are."

"That's not what you told me before."

Joker scoffs, bitterly. His hands are scratching at the skin of his arms.

"Before, I didn't think there was any danger of you giving in."

"So you admit it," Bruce says. "You _are_ afraid, just like I was. That's the only reason for you to say no."

"Aren't _you_?"

"Yes," Bruce whispers. "But I want you more than I fear you."

"Ha." Joker gives a short, bitter bark of a laugh, curling in tighter on himself. Then he goes quiet, and the lines of his mouth soften into something pensive.

Something sad.

"And I need you to stop me," he whispers, "more than I need you to love me."

Bruce registers this, digests it, and then puts it away to keep safe in his heart. 

He tells Joker, "You can have both. You _have_ had both. I can still stop you when you need it."

"Can you promise me that?" Joker asks. "Can you _guarantee_ it?"

Bruce has done his own soul-searching on this. He's expected this question, and is ready for it.

"Yes," he says, without hesitation.

Joker lifts up his head, turns it slowly, and then his green eyes meet Bruce's for so long that it feels like a whole lifetime.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, "that it took me this long."

Joker flinches, and looks away. "Go."

"Okay. But I'll be back, Joker."

No response. Bruce gives it another beat, and then moves to open the cell.

Just when the door's about to close behind him, Joker says, "Batsy."

Bruce stops and looks at him through the glass.

Joker's standing up now, facing him, with the length of the cell between them.

He asks, "Is that the only thing you're sorry for?"

Bruce blinks. "I don't —"

"Do you regret not saving me that night at Ace?"

Ah. So _that's_ the test. And Bruce knows there's only one right answer he can give.

He thinks about that night, the man falling into the vat. He thinks about Joker, and the blood on his hands. He thinks about all the pain Joker's inflicted on him, on his family, on his city.

He thinks about the symbol on his chest. Of identity, and masks, and disguises, and building yourself up from the ashes, and finding truth and freedom in the pain.

He searches his heart, and finds the strength to face the truth.

He says, "No."


	5. Alternate Universe

Joker stays curled up on the cot long after Batsy disappears, shaking, rocking, wide awake, thoughts and feelings and doubts and fears and longing racing so fast they trip over one another, push out his pores and leak out into puddles all over the cell.

His love. The source of such power, of such certainty, of such a profound sense of belonging, understanding and stability.

Now it only makes him want to scream and claw until he rubs the skin clean off his bones.

His hand touches the wall of the cell, and presses in until the hurt of it grounds him some, until he can feel its shape, cracks and all, embedded into his hand. Arkham hums at him in response, a warm, soothing purr rumbling through stone from the tallest tower down to the lowest, dankiest basements. Joker closes his eyes and breathes what comfort it'll give him, listening to the steady heartbeat of home until eventually, his heart slows down to match.

 _Now what?_ , he asks her. _What do I do?_

He asks the question every day and every night after that. Alone in his cell, or for the one hour when they let him out in the yard. Lying awake, staring up at the ceiling. Listening. And, in a way, praying like he's never prayed before.

He's patient about it. He knows a sign will come in due time. Arkham's never let him down before, not in this, and he knows that Arkham's heartbeat is Gotham's, too. Arkham will let him know what the city needs of him.

And so he waits, and whiles away the time guiltily reliving the touch of Batsy's lips on his.

It isn't long before the memory melts into fantasy. Those are never very far behind. This time, though, Joker tries to keep them at bay. They seem weak, pale and pathetic now that he's experienced the real thing, and they make Joker feel weak, pale and pathetic in turn. Besides, it's dangerous to indulge in them now that there's a chance of them coming true. Not until he knows he's allowed. Not while he dithers, caught on the edge, between his life and the unknown, between lifelong certainties and ruin, everything and nothing. 

That, and he's afraid that once he starts imagining what might have happened if he hadn't pushed Batsy away, the regret will kill him.

It keeps him up, this entire mess, the burn of Batsy's lips, the voices screaming in his head, the fear, the conflict, the softness in Batsy's voice, the longing in his eyes that's always been there but never this naked, this obvious, this free. The questions. The uncertainty. The change. And his own wants, his own needs, so steadfast and unshakeable once and now torn up in two. 

There's too much of it. Too fast, too sudden, and there's no way he can keep it all in. He's exhausted with it by the time the week's up, his head splitting open at the seams, his stomach retching up what little he manages to eat. It's only a matter of time before his body shuts down on him, and Joker _yearns_ for that, for a couple precious moments of silence and peace.

It finally happens two weeks later, when he's in the middle of throwing up his dinner. He only has time for one blissful smile before the dizziness sweeps him, and he mouths a silent _thank you_ before his eyes close and his head hits the floor.

That's when the sign comes.

Joker doesn't remember the details when he wakes up. He mostly remembers impressions. But he knows what it was that Arkham, and Gotham herself by extension, wanted him to see.

Him and Batman. Together. On other worlds, in other circumstances. Looking different in each new scenario, sounding different, acting different, but always, always linked.

One way or another.

Joker remembers walking among them in his sleep, a silent witness, and he remembers that there was warmth to these images. Some of it even smelled like kindness, violence-flavored but true. Affection, side by side with hate. Longing, immortalized and unfulfilled in some, but fulfilled in others. 

Some of those latter ones terrified him, showing him all his fears come to life, all the worst possible outcomes. 

And some...

 _Hope_. He mostly remembers hope.

They're real. All of them, all those different worlds, so alike and yet different from his, happening somewhere out there in dimensions and stories he won't be able to glimpse again. That's a comforting thought, and maybe the most important one. He can tell the warmth of them, the tangibility, different from the other dream fantasies Arkham weaves through his dreams sometimes. There's a weight to the impressions that his fantasies don't have, a touch of truth. 

Proof. 

And maybe a bit of a promise, as well.

Somewhere out there, there's a version of him and Batsy that _can_ have what his own Batsy's offering.

And that means...

He pulls himself up on trembling arms and peers into the darkness in the corner of the cell. His skin prickles just so, breaking out in gooseflesh, and he knows he's not alone. He knows Arkham's watching over him, making sure he got the message.

The deepest shadow ripples, detaches himself from the darkness, and then glides in close until he looms over Joker like a comfort blanket. His sky-blue eyes peer down at him, glowing, and tendrils of shadow float out to tease over Joker's skin in a caress that feels cold all over except in the heart. 

Joker smiles.

"Thank you," he says. "I understand."

The shadow nods, and then he rushes him, catching him in his enormous mist-woven black wings. Joker collapses onto the cot, and into it, laughing out his love and gratitude as the shadow embraces him whole.

He may still have his doubts. He may still be afraid. But the city's given him her answer — and her blessing.

He knows what he has to do.


	6. Hugs

Bruce finds Joker on the roof of the GCPD, beside the lit bat signal, sitting on the edge with his legs dangling over the street below. 

"I got your message," he says.

"How much time do we have?" Joker asks without turning. 

Bruce considers. "I haven't freed the officers you tied up," he says. "I told them I needed to get to you first. Fifteen minutes tops."

"All right." Slowly, Joker gets to his feet, and turns to face Bruce. "Hi."

Bruce doesn't respond — he isn’t sure what the right words are. Better let Joker take the lead.

Joker considers him in silence for another moment, and then takes a few steps closer so he's standing by the rigging of the bat signal. 

"You utter bastard," he whispers. 

His tone is fond. Affectionate, under the exasperation. Relief floods Bruce at the sound of it, all the stronger when he notices the twitching corners of Joker’s mouth, and he doesn’t bother fighting it this time. He smiles.

"I won't allow you to change me," Joker says, his face going cold and stern. "None of that _I'll rehabilitate you_ bullshit. Ah-ah, don't you deny it — I know you're gonna try. I know you. You won't be able to help yourself. I'm just letting you know that if that's your condition, then you can shove it deep in that cave you call home and let the chips fall where they may."

Bruce nods, his heart picking up now, feeling warm under the armor. 

"That's not the condition," he says.

Joker's eyes narrow. "Then what is?"

"Killing," Bruce tells him, slowly. Picking his words with care. "I don't care about the rest. You can oppose me in everything else. In fact, I'm gonna need you to." Bruce pauses, searching Joker's face for a reaction. "But if you kill," he picks up softly, "then it's gonna make it harder for me. I won't be able to let go in a way I think you'd want me to. I'd withdraw. Revert. Like you said: I wouldn't be able to help myself."

"You realize what that means, right?" Joker asks him, quietly, leaning against the signal. "You've just handed me a safeword. The moment I decide this isn't working, all I need to do is kill someone to get us back to where we started."

Bruce swallows. "Yeah."

"And you've told me that anyway?"

"You needed to know."

Joker slumps against the signal, his shoulders drooping, his gaze dropping low to the ground.

And then, after a moment, he laughs.

"Oh, Batsy," he says, wetly, shuddering with it all over. "You old fool."

Bruce holds in a breath. "Does that mean I'm allowed to come closer?"

"Yeah." Joker's eyes shine wetly when he lifts them, and his smile wobbles at the corners. "Yeah, you are."

The moment Bruce gets within touching range, a knife flashes in Joker's hand. Bruce almost lets out a laugh when he notices, and accepts it for the test it is. He catches Joker's wrist and twists it until the knife clatters to the ground, and then pulls Joker in close, twists them, and pushes him up against the signal.

"See?" he whispers. "No kid gloves."

"Had to make sure." Joker grins, and laughs again, trembling and rattled all over, when Bruce presses the spikes of his gauntlet to his throat. 

"Is that a yes?" Bruce asks, never letting up.

Joker's face relaxes into something soft and a little sad, a little wistful, as he regards him from up close. 

"It's a yes," he allows. "For now."

Bruce smiles, catches him by the lapel of the trenchcoat, and kisses him.

And this time, Joker lets it happen. He kisses back with violence, biting through Bruce's lip to taste blood, and doesn't resist when Bruce pulls him in close into his arms. 

"I've got you," Bruce whispers into his ear, into his hair, letting the smell of it pull him in and stoke the warmth and peace inside him. "It's okay."

Joker shudders in his arms, and closes his eyes. His head drops down to rest against Bruce's shoulder.

He lets himself be held.


	7. Domesticity

The day after the rain dawns bright and clear, or as clear as Gotham's skies ever dare to be. It's bright enough that the glare of it coaxes Bruce awake far too early, spilling in through the skylight and pooling under his sticky, sandy eyelids. 

It takes him a moment to register the smell. 

"Rise and shine, sweetheart," says Joker's voice, far too loud, right in his ear.

"Doughnuts?" Bruce asks, his own voice coming out hoarse and rough with sleep. 

"And coffee," Joker agrees. "Get it while it's hot!"

"You went shopping," Bruce observes as he finally rolls over, unglues his eyes and rubs at them to clear off the last of the dream. He blinks and pulls himself up on his elbows to see Joker bundled up in his trenchcoat — and only that, judging by his bare legs and peeks of naked chest — perching on the edge of the mattress and rummaging in a paper bag. 

"Just a bit of breakfast," he says in a bright, lilting voice that doesn't fool Bruce for a second. "You looked like you might need it."

He starts prattling about the little place on the corner where he got the goods. Bruce lets it wash right off him. His eyes, and his whole mind, zero in on the finger-shaped marks around Joker's white throat.

The marks Bruce made last night as he fucked Joker hard and rough over the window sill.

They hadn't done it like this before. Not quite. The sex wasn't violent at first, which surprised Bruce, but only at the start. Then it made sense. There was Joker's hesitation to soothe, for one thing, and...

You can't really have hate sex with someone you don't hate.

Last night, though. Last night was...

Bruce swallows, trying to contain the thrill sparking to life in his gut, the eager throb in his cock, the rush of blood in his ears. 

He reaches out, caresses Joker's hair gently out of the way, and fits his hand over the marks on his neck.

Joker falls silent. His green eyes darken as they fall on Bruce. He sits still, the sweet-smelling, frosting-stained paper bag on his lap. 

Bruce takes it, puts it down on the floor, and pulls Joker into his arms. 

"Thank you," he says, and they both know he doesn't mean the breakfast.

He'd never stayed the night before, either.

Joker looks up at him, and brings a finger up to trace the line of Bruce's jaw. 

"Don't," he says. "Not yet. This is just..."

"A step," Bruce whispers. "I know. Still, it's..."

"Yeah." Joker takes a deep breath, and laughs nervously. "I guess." He swats at Bruce. "Don't you get any ideas."

"Like what?" Bruce grins down at him, and sneaks his hand into the folds of the trenchcoat to find Joker's ribs. "Like this?" 

He tickles, and Joker _squeals_ , kicking and flailing and accidentally spilling the coffee to the floor. He socks Bruce on the jaw, _hard_ , until Bruce lets him up, and then shoots to his feet to get as far away as humanly possible in the small abandoned loft. 

"This means war," he declares, and goes for the squirt flower.

Bruce is quick to grab his belt and fish out a smoke pellet. Moments later, the loft fills up with smoke, and as he chases Joker through it, following the laughter, it comes to him once more, clearer than ever before. 

To change doesn't always mean to lose.


End file.
